IV

Lizaveta Ivanovna was sitting in her room, still in her ball dress,

lost in deep thought. On returning home, she had hastily dismissed the

chambermaid who very reluctantly came forward to assist her, saying

that she would undress herself, and with a trembling heart had gone up

to her own room, expecting to find Hermann there, but yet hoping not

to find him. At the first glance she convinced herself that he was not

there, and she thanked her fate for having prevented him keeping the

appointment. She sat down without undressing, and began to recall to

mind all the circumstances which in so short a time had carried her so

far. It was not three weeks since the time when she first saw the

young officer from the window--and yet she was already in

correspondence with him, and he had succeeded in inducing her to grant

him a nocturnal interview! She knew his name only through his having

written it at the bottom of some of his letters; she had never spoken

to him, had never heard his voice, and had never heard him spoken of

until that evening. But, strange to say, that very evening at the

ball, Tomsky, being piqued with the young Princess Pauline N----, who,

contrary to her usual custom, did not flirt with him, wished to

revenge himself by assuming an air of indifference: he therefore

engaged Lizaveta Ivanovna and danced an endless mazurka with her.

During the whole of the time he kept teasing her about her partiality

for Engineer officers; he assured her that he knew far more than she

imagined, and some of his jests were so happily aimed, that Lizaveta

thought several times that her secret was known to him.

"From whom have you learnt all this?" she asked, smiling.

"From a friend of a person very well known to you," replied Tomsky,

"from a very distinguished man."

"And who is this distinguished man?"

"His name is Hermann."

Lizaveta made no reply; but her hands and feet lost all sense of

feeling.

"This Hermann," continued Tomsky, "is a man of romantic personality.

He has the profile of a Napoleon, and the soul of a Mephistopheles. I

believe that he has at least three crimes upon his conscience... How

pale you have become!"

"I have a headache... But what did this Hermann--or whatever his name

is--tell you?"

"Hermann is very much dissatisfied with his friend: he says that in

his place he would act very differently... I even think that Hermann

himself has designs upon you; at least, he listens very attentively to

all that his friend has to say about you."

"And where has he seen me?"

"In church, perhaps; or on the parade--God alone knows where. It may

have been in your room, while you were asleep, for there is nothing

that he--"

Three ladies approaching him with the question: "_oubli ou regret_?"

interrupted the conversation, which had become so tantalisingly

interesting to Lizaveta.

The lady chosen by Tomsky was the Princess Pauline herself. She

succeeded in effecting a reconciliation with him during the numerous

turns of the dance, after which he conducted her to her chair. On

returning to his place, Tomsky thought no more either of Hermann or

Lizaveta. She longed to renew the interrupted conversation, but the

mazurka came to an end, and shortly afterwards the old Countess took

her departure.

Tomsky's words were nothing more than the customary small talk of the

dance, but they sank deep into the soul of the young dreamer. The

portrait, sketched by Tomsky, coincided with the picture she had

formed within her own mind, and thanks to the latest romances, the

ordinary countenance of her admirer became invested with attributes

capable of alarming her and fascinating her imagination at the same

time. She was now sitting with her bare arms crossed and with her

head, still adorned with flowers, sunk upon her uncovered bosom.

Suddenly the door opened and Hermann entered. She shuddered.

"Where were you?" she asked in a terrified whisper.

"In the old Countess's bedroom," replied Hermann: "I have just left

her. The Countess is dead."

"My God! What do you say?"

"And I am afraid," added Hermann, "that I am the cause of her death."

Lizaveta looked at him, and Tomsky's words found an echo in her soul:

"This man has at least three crimes upon his conscience!" Hermann sat

down by the window near her, and related all that had happened.

Lizaveta listened to him in terror. So all those passionate letters,

those ardent desires, this bold obstinate pursuit--all this was not

love! Money--that was what his soul yearned for! She could not satisfy

his desire and make him happy! The poor girl had been nothing but

the blind tool of a robber, of the murderer of her aged

benefactress!... She wept bitter tears of agonised repentance. Hermann

gazed at her in silence: his heart, too, was a prey to violent

emotion, but neither the tears of the poor girl, nor the wonderful

charm of her beauty, enhanced by her grief, could produce any

impression upon his hardened soul. He felt no pricking of conscience

at the thought of the dead old woman. One thing only grieved him: the

irreparable loss of the secret from which he had expected to obtain

great wealth.

"You are a monster!" said Lizaveta at last.

"I did not wish for her death," replied Hermann: "my pistol was not

loaded."

Both remained silent.

The day began to dawn. Lizaveta extinguished her candle: a pale light

illumined her room. She wiped her tear-stained eyes and raised them

towards Hermann: he was sitting near the window, with his arms crossed

and with a fierce frown upon his forehead. In this attitude he bore a

striking resemblance to the portrait of Napoleon. This resemblance

struck Lizaveta even.

"How shall I get you out of the house?" said she at last. "I thought

of conducting you down the secret staircase, but in that case it would

be necessary to go through the Countess's bedroom, and I am afraid."

"Tell me how to find this secret staircase--I will go alone."

Lizaveta arose, took from her drawer a key, handed it to Hermann and

gave him the necessary instructions. Hermann pressed her cold, limp

hand, kissed her bowed head, and left the room.

He descended the winding staircase, and once more entered the

Countess's bedroom. The dead old lady sat as if petrified; her face

expressed profound tranquillity. Hermann stopped before her, and gazed

long and earnestly at her, as if he wished to convince himself of the

terrible reality; at last he entered the cabinet, felt behind the

tapestry for the door, and then began to descend the dark staircase,

filled with strange emotions. "Down this very staircase," thought he,

"perhaps coming from the very same room, and at this very same hour

sixty years ago, there may have glided, in an embroidered coat, with

his hair dressed _à l'oiseau royal_ and pressing to his heart his

three-cornered hat, some young gallant, who has long been mouldering

in the grave, but the heart of his aged mistress has only to-day

ceased to beat..."

At the bottom of the staircase Hermann found a door, which he opened

with a key, and then traversed a corridor which conducted him into the

street.

V

Three days after the fatal night, at nine o'clock in the morning,

Hermann repaired to the Convent of ----, where the last honours were

to be paid to the mortal remains of the old Countess. Although feeling

no remorse, he could not altogether stifle the voice of conscience,

which said to him: "You are the murderer of the old woman!" In spite

of his entertaining very little religious belief, he was exceedingly

superstitious; and believing that the dead Countess might exercise an

evil influence on his life, he resolved to be present at her obsequies

in order to implore her pardon.

The church was full. It was with difficulty that Hermann made his way

through the crowd of people. The coffin was placed upon a rich

catafalque beneath a velvet baldachin. The deceased Countess lay

within it, with her hands crossed upon her breast, with a lace cap

upon her head and dressed in a white satin robe. Around the catafalque

stood the members of her household: the servants in black _caftans_,

with armorial ribbons upon their shoulders, and candles in their

hands; the relatives--children, grandchildren, and

great-grandchildren--in deep mourning.

Nobody wept; tears would have been _une affectation_. The Countess was

so old, that her death could have surprised nobody, and her relatives

had long looked upon her as being out of the world. A famous preacher

pronounced the funeral sermon. In simple and touching words he

described the peaceful passing away of the righteous, who had passed

long years in calm preparation for a Christian end. "The angel of

death found her," said the orator, "engaged in pious meditation and

waiting for the midnight bridegroom."

The service concluded amidst profound silence. The relatives went

forward first to take farewell of the corpse. Then followed the

numerous guests, who had come to render the last homage to her who for

so many years had been a participator in their frivolous amusements.

After these followed the members of the Countess's household. The last

of these was an old woman of the same age as the deceased. Two young

women led her forward by the hand. She had not strength enough to bow

down to the ground--she merely shed a few tears and kissed the cold

hand of her mistress.

Hermann now resolved to approach the coffin. He knelt down upon the

cold stones and remained in that position for some minutes; at last he

arose, as pale as the deceased Countess herself; he ascended the steps

of the catafalque and bent over the corpse... At that moment it seemed

to him that the dead woman darted a mocking look at him and winked

with one eye. Hermann started back, took a false step and fell to the

ground. Several persons hurried forward and raised him up. At the same

moment Lizaveta Ivanovna was borne fainting into the porch of the

church. This episode disturbed for some minutes the solemnity of the

gloomy ceremony. Among the congregation arose a deep murmur, and a

tall thin chamberlain, a near relative of the deceased, whispered in

the ear of an Englishman who was standing near him, that the young

officer was a natural son of the Countess, to which the Englishman

coldly replied: "Oh!"

During the whole of that day, Hermann was strangely excited. Repairing

to an out-of-the-way restaurant to dine, he drank a great deal of

wine, contrary to his usual custom, in the hope of deadening his

inward agitation. But the wine only served to excite his imagination

still more. On returning home, he threw himself upon his bed without

undressing, and fell into a deep sleep.

When he woke up it was already night, and the moon was shining into

the room. He looked at his watch: it was a quarter to three. Sleep had

left him; he sat down upon his bed and thought of the funeral of the

old Countess.

At that moment somebody in the street looked in at his window, and

immediately passed on again. Hermann paid no attention to this

incident. A few moments afterwards he heard the door of his ante-room

open. Hermann thought that it was his orderly, drunk as usual,

returning from some nocturnal expedition, but presently he heard

footsteps that were unknown to him: somebody was walking softly over

the floor in slippers. The door opened, and a woman dressed in white,

entered the room. Hermann mistook her for his old nurse, and wondered

what could bring her there at that hour of the night. But the white

woman glided rapidly across the room and stood before him--and Hermann

recognised the Countess!

"I have come to you against my wish," she said in a firm voice: "but I

have been ordered to grant your request. Three, seven, ace, will win

for you if played in succession, but only on these conditions: that

you do not play more than one card in twenty-four hours, and that you

never play again during the rest of your life. I forgive you my death,

on condition that you marry my companion, Lizaveta Ivanovna."

With these words she turned round very quietly, walked with a

shuffling gait towards the door and disappeared. Hermann heard the

street-door open and shut, and again he saw some one look in at him

through the window.

For a long time Hermann could not recover himself. He then rose up and

entered the next room. His orderly was lying asleep upon the floor,

and he had much difficulty in waking him. The orderly was drunk as

usual, and no information could be obtained from him. The street-door

was locked. Hermann returned to his room, lit his candle, and wrote

down all the details of his vision.